


What's Special About Me

by John_Bender



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Erotica, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 05:45:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1376074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/John_Bender/pseuds/John_Bender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>´He's handsome at the worst of times. Right now he is eerily beautiful. One stride and he invades my space.“So, what’s it gonna be tonight, Ianto Jones?” His bouquet makes me giddy. A mix of Tuscan tannins and these darn pheromones of his. “Do or be done?"`</p><p>* Ianto's POV on his 1st sexual encounters with Jack. And how he unravels the sad secret behind Jack's remarkable physical performances. Slightly fragmentary journal/flashback-style but with decent little plot arc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's Special About Me

**Author's Note:**

> Author's notes: My first Torchwood fanfic. Found it rather difficult to give Ianto, the reticent, pages and pages of narrative. So, by no means perfect, but I did what I could, seeing I should really be doing more important stuff.  
> Reviews highly appreciated, but if you review, please do it in honour of the moribund tradition of constructive criticism. A word or two on why you like it or not surely won't hurt.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own a rampant fantasy. And that's about it.
> 
> And last bu not least, it would be nice if some of you dear readers took a moment to comment. After all, constructive criticism is what motivates and improves a writer!

*********

Sexual interaction with Captain Jack Harkness is like every interaction with Captain Jack Harkness. A power game. And it’s like Jack Harkness himself. Not quite what it seems to be.

 

***

It started off rather...well, normal isn’t quite the word that springs to mind when it comes to Jack. But there wasn’t half as much kinkiness involved as Martha may have read into the avant-garde dabbling. Especially not in the beginning. And the beginning began much later than most people presumed. Not because Jack wouldn’t have gone for the stop watch opportunity. Or for any other opportunity for that matter. But because I didn’t. I kept chickening out. Until that one night...

***

 

“Maybe we could, you know, when this is all done...dinner? A movie?”

Those are the words that ask the Tea Boy out.

And the Tea Boy says yes.

“Yes! Yes...”

So a dinner and a movie it is. Just not in that order.

We sit through a sci-fi movie, only memorable for the fact that it makes me realise sci-fi movies don’t work for people who hunt down aliens for a living. And for the hand Jack plants on my thigh somewhere round midpoint. And there it stays for the rest of the film.

I think he’s trying hard not to scare me off.

 

After that it’s the obligatory Italian restaurant. Jack orders for the both of us. Mixed antipasti, saltimbocca and a superb bottle of Tuscan red wine.

 

***

Actually it was two bottles of red wine which helped making me a lot less scared of what was to come. Or who was to come. Or who was when to come. Because that’s an issue for Jack. No, not like that. And already not what it seems. These are the relevant events in chronological order:

***

 

I unlock the door to my apartment. Enter. Extend a hand to switch on the hall light.

“Don’t.”

Jack’s breath on my ear sends shivers down my spine. I make an effort not to give them away.

The door clicks shut behind us.

My hall isn’t really a hall, though. More an alcove with a coat rack, a mirror, a shoe cabinet. It opens to the main room of my studio flat. The main room has a glass façade. So when I turn I find him bathed in silver moonlight. Blue eyes plated with a layer of translucent chrome.

He's handsome at the worst of times. Right now he is eerily beautiful.

One stride and he invades my space.

“So, what’s it gonna be tonight, Ianto Jones?”

His bouquet makes me giddy. A mix of Tuscan tannins and these darn pheromones of his.

“Do or be done?”

I hold my breath. To get my head clear enough for a coherent answer.

“I think doing you would be quite inappropriate, Sir.”

Cause what could I do? That hasn’t been done to him before? Most likely more skilled than I’ll ever be. I’m not fishing for compliments. Never had any complaints. But my experience in ´doing` men is rudimental and doing a two hundred year old nymphomaniac feels somewhat beyond me.

He shrugs out of his greatcoat, tosses it on the rack.

“Maybe so.”

He brushes past, beeline for the futon bed, then a u-turn and his lips are attached to my ear again.

“I just want you to know that I hardly ever let people in the back way. Consider yourself part of a very select group for it even crossing my mind.”

I wonder how this statement can put a heavier boot in my countenance than his scent and sight put together. But it does and I turn to face him.

“Take me. Please.”

The moment the words are out I have two simultaneous thoughts. ´Where the hell did that come from?` and ´He is going to bust my balls for this.`  
But he doesn’t. He pulls back and smiles.

“Do you mind if I give instead?”

And the boot is right up my arse.

 

A blink of an eye later he’s got me on the bed. Spread-eagled under him. Somewhere along the way he’s gotten himself my bottle of Penderyn Single Malt. He takes a swig. Puts his mouth over mine. And they burst into me, the liquor and his tongue and I wonder how his taste can be so distinct through the high-percentage alcohol. When he breaks the kiss I’m naked.

“How did you do that?”

Again he smiles.

“Just a matter of practise.”

Then he stands, legs apart, in front of me and undresses.

I goggle.

Possibly like a deer in the headlights, because he stops midway down the button border of his shirt. Frowns.

“Are you sure this time?”

All I mange is another “Please.”

But it does the job. Gets him out of his gear and back over me in a flash. Body weighing down. Throbbing hard-on flush with mine. Every point of skin contact seems to give off electric shocks. Again I wait for him to bust my balls. And again he doesn’t. Not yet.

He locks eyes with me.

“I need you to do something for me, Ianto.”

I lock back.

“Anything, Jack.”

“I need you to tell me when you’re ready for me to come.”

The words don’t make sense.

“What?”

“I need you to tell me-”

“I heard you.” ´What` was the wrong question. “Why?”

He shrugs. ´Isn’t that obvious?`

“Because I want to be good for the people I’m with. And I don’t wanna ruin it for them with bad timing.”

I must look sceptical because he sighs.

“Just because I don’t mind quantity doesn’t mean I don’t care about quality. I’ve always been fairly good at holding back. And I got better over time. So it seemed sort of natural to adjust to the demands of those...” a cocky smirk. “...less gifted.”

I suspect this is one of those times where a person should shut up, be proactive and know what to do. Unfortunately I’m brain dead.

“What do you want me to say?”

Sure enough there’s impatience in his voice when he props himself up on his elbows. Drags his cock down the length of mine to my back way.

“Whatever. Spurt, cum, jizz, jerk off, time for sexual release. Just let me know when it’s safe.”

Then he pushes into me. Plain and simple. Heavy and hard.

I try to hold his gaze but I instantly lose focus. Not just vision-wise but altogether. Like my entire being is blurring into a play of colours mixed in shades of pleasure and pain. In the remnants of my rational mind I wonder – I wonder a lot these days – aren’t you supposed to use lubricant for this? And as you don’t, why don’t you hurt more than I need you too? No, that barely scratches the surface. Why is every single move you make never more and never less than what I need it to be?

 

***

I don’t know how long I lasted. All I know is when I came I came with body, mind and soul. And with an unflattering wail of lust. From lust I drifted straight on into a trance-like satisfaction.

***

 

First thing I do upon returning from that trance, I repeat the question.

“How did you do that?”

“Practice.”

It’s barely a whisper, like it’s coming from some remnants of his mind.

He’s still looking at me. Has he even blinked throughout the whole procedure?

His eyes are black with dilated pupils.

God. I’ve forgotten about him and his ´safety word`. Never thought he was serious about it. But he is. He’s in freeze frame, waiting for someone to unspool the rest of the film.

I know I shouldn’t drag it out.

Know I should say it.

Now...

Or now...

Or at least now...

I can’t bring myself to ruin this picture. Jack, suspended in time and space, and I have the power to release him.

He raises a brow.

“Are you doing this on purpose, Mr. Jones?”

I’m a school kid caught cheating.

“No! No I don’t.”

And then I say the magic words for the first time.

“You’re safe to come, Sir.”

 

***

Had I known what a picture that makes, I’d have given him the marching order straight away. From all his talking I imagined him pornographic in his orgasms. But he isn’t. Not to my knowledge.

***

 

He’s intense, yes, very intense, when the allows the wave to roll through him into me. But he doesn’t do much. No humping, no screaming...definitely no unflattering wail. Just one stroke that brings him all the way in. Then a shudder, through his entire body. And then he opens the floodgate to his boiling spring. It washes out a moan. An almost pained expression of abandon. And all the while he nails me down with a stare that tells a whole different story. One of grim determination.

 

Later when he lies, half in my arms, I go in my third round of “How did you do that?”

A lazy murmur.

“What?”

“The coming on cue. How’s that work?”

He chuckles.

“Let’s just say I’m the king of self-control.”

Rolling over, I look at him.

“Is it hard?”

He hovers between another joke and a serious answer, then settles for the latter.

“Yes.”

“You make it look so easy.”

“I’m good at pretending.”

There’s a rare openness to him. It makes me reach out and run my thumb down his cheek.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing you drop that pretence.”

He settles back to bantering.

“If you’d gone for quite inappropriate you’d have seen me fail to even put it on.”

 

***

In the following weeks I learned a lot about Jack’s many talents. I learned that he really can come on cue.

***

 

“Can you really come on cue?”

The day after.

I have entered his office with a pack of utterly unimportant paperwork. Just to have an excuse to enter. I’m intrigued. I want to know more about this.

He looks up from a file he’s been skimming through.

“Looks like it.”

“How long does it take you to get to...operation temperature?”

He shelves the file.

“Depends on what fires me.”

Gives me a wink.

“Hot stuff like you, a couple seconds?”

I put the paperwork on the edge of the desk and let down the blinds on the glass walls.

“Prove it.”

“Excuse me?”

He’s in his swivel chair. I walk over, turn him round. Drop to my knees and open his fly to an arousing semi.

“I said prove it.”

He locks my wrists in a firm grip.

“I don’t think I have anything to prove to-.”

My mouth comes over him and his next word drowns in a sharp gasp. I don’t have any noteworthy technique. I’ve only sucked cock once before. And I didn’t like it. But he is bone hard in those couple seconds.

I let go.

“Safe to come, Jack.”

He’s indecisive for a second. Then the switch to ´what the heck`. And one of those grins.

“Only if you swallow.”

I barely have him in again when the shudder comes on.

And I swallow. A lot.

I get up, straighten my cloths.

“Proof given, Sir.”

I pick up the papers and leave.

 

***

I learned he can’t just come on cue but on multiple cues.

***

 

Three nights later. First time we’re together since the office incident. A whole lot of rift activity lately. Just pointless artefacts but a pile of work for everyone.

I am all over him. Utter the magic words five times in fifteen minutes. And he obeys. I’m about to utter them again but he puts a finger on my lips. Struggles for breath.

“This is fun. Really. But I’m not your lab rat. The whole point of you telling me when to come is to make sure I don’t come too soon. Not make sure I come whenever you want me to.”

Again I’m caught in the act. But I can’t let the matter rest.

“Could you, though?”

He groans.

“I don’t know, Ianto. And please, don’t try to find out. I want to come out of this at least halfway sane.”

 

***

And I learned he can go for hours. On end.

***

 

Check on it a month into our dabbling. Start with detailed exploration of every inch of his body. He is ready once he’s hard. He is hard once I touch him. Conclusion - that alone must have him walk the tightrope for a good two hours. I raise the odds to an adagio hand job. A half hour more. And from there to my by now fairly adept blow job. Another solid half hour. He’s turned on. Very much so. But still composed.

I am not.

Somewhere in hour four his taste has made me so hungry I need him in more than just my mouth. So I once again set out for losing track of time and myself and basically everything. And for reducing me to a plea that sounds a lot like an infinite loop of the name that isn’t even his.

 

When I come back he’s still there. In me and eyes on me.

“Am I right in assuming that I’m safe as the Bank of England?”

Voice dripping with arrogance.

Right then it occurs to me. I’m not just intrigued. Not just deliberate. I’m tempted. To be more than a pawn in his power game. Tempted to be a player.

“What if I say no?”

He cocks his head.

“You want another round or are you challenging me to a forced shutdown?”

´Shutdown` is on the tip of my tongue.

Then he makes a wicked little move.

And I cry “Another round!” and a heartbeat later “Safe!”.

It’s the first time we come together. I don’t even bother to try and describe how that feels.

 

Later that night.

Me: “How did you-?”

Him: “How did I do what?”

It’s an even lazier drawl than the one he provided me with four weeks ago.

He’s sprawled over two thirds of the futon. One leg, one arm dangling over the edge. No moonlight tonight. Radiant beauty needs no outside illumination.

Then there’s me. Not unattractive. But compared to him – ordinary. Forgettable. And craving. For him. And more of him. And more, and more and more.

Hard to imagine I used to hate his guts.

“How did you make me putty in your hands?”

“Hmmmmm...”

He sounds genuinely sleepy. Almost rarer in him than openness. Although wearing him out seems to help.

“Really all just practice. After a couple decades and a few thousand fucks you know what buttons to push.”

Then a soft snore and he dozes off.

Maybe not so hard to imagine after all. Cause that’s what I am to him. One in a few thousand forgettable fucks who’s buttons are being pushed. Until I make way for the next button.

But not without pushing back.

At least once.

 

***

I let two weeks go by. Weeks in which I avoided him physically. Always on profound, unshakeable grounds and always with the reassurance that I certainly would have preferred spending the time with him to with my respective alleged obligation. Part of me was terrified it might backfire. Tempt him to go off with somebody else. But it didn’t. It left him simmer in his own juice. Some revenge is best served piping hot.

***

 

The moon is back in my studio. And so is Jack. Standing, in all his unveiled glory, amid the clothes we’ve ripped off each other. My humble self is again just forgettably naked. But that doesn’t matter. Not tonight.

Tonight I reverse the roles.

Make me the player and him the pawn.

I shove him flat on the bed. Drop myself upon him. Between him. Give him no time for one of his jinxing moves.

He’s vaguely puzzled.

I spit in my hand, bring it down on me.

Now he gets it.

Breathes “Oh god.”

Steamy excitement with a dash of chill unease.

Background noise.

Tune it out.

Give me no time to second guess my moves.

Then I push. Plain, simple, heavy, hard.

And like he said, he fails to put on the pretence. Not that he’s not holding against me. Just that there’s nothing easy about it. It’s a struggle between a body running wild with desire and a mind, it’s in this determined stare, a mind battling to keep it in check.

 

***

Down to the present day I still don’t know why he even gave away that Achilles’ heel. Maybe because he didn’t think I’d do what I did next.

***

 

I let myself get carried away. Figure if I can make him fail pretending I can make him fail altogether. Fail to contain himself.

I surf his struggle like the perfect wave. And this time I last forever. For a series of forevers.

I never believed I was capable of more than one orgasm. And it takes me much more than fifteen minutes. But I am. I am, hyped up on a surge of greed for power.

Somewhere along the way he pleads. Just the one word.

“Please.”

But I shake my head. No. Not yet. Bear with me, my love. Bear with me.

It’s not until my last wave crashes on a cliff of self-satisfied smugness that I realise what’s going on.

He never stopped the staring of course. But it’s unfocussed. Breath shallow. Heart racing against mine. And he’s got a rigid grip on my biceps.

He’s not holding against me any more.

He’s holding on for dear life.

 

Nothing more embarrassing than catching yourself in the act.

I go limp.

Pull back. Pull out. Bitch out.

“I’m sorry, Jack. I’m so sorry.”

I haven’t just played with power. I have misplayed it.

I throw over my shirt and boxers. Anything to forget how naked I feel.

“Jack? Please. I’m sorry.”

No reaction.

“Jack, please.”

It’s so low I almost miss it.

“Say it.”

“I did. I said I’m sorry.”

“Say it.”

“Say what?”

Then it hits home.

“No! Can’t you see? I’m not good with it. And I don’t want it any more. I don’t care if you’re too soon. Please, do whatever you want whenever you want.”

Something shifts in him. Pupils constrict to pinheads. In a split second he’s up on his knees. Collars me. Snarls.

“Say it!”

 

***

And that was when I realised what was really going on. Or at least part of it. Because the realisation fired like a step rocket over the next hours.

***

 

Step one.

I realise I never had any power. He allowed me some of his. And now he’s commanding it back.

I say “You’re safe to come, Sir.”

What else is there to say?

He comes violently. All over me. Not with a shudder and a moan. With a spasm and a roar right into my face. Then he collapses back on the bed.

While I clean us up I try to apologise again.

He turns his back.

“It’s ok. You’re not the first who tried.”

His smugness borders on spite.

“And failed.”

And then he’s gone. At least I bring sleep.

 

***

I lay restless all night. I may not have been the first who tried. I may not have been the last. But I was going to make sure I was the one who never tried again.

***

 

I tell him that when he wakes to a slate blue Cardiff dawn.

“It’s not ok. And I won’t try again.”

I’m prepared for him to not know what I’m talking about. Or to shrug it off again.

Instead he says “Thank you.”

With a trust and gratitude that to people like him only come in those unguarded twilight moments.

 

***

I still didn’t understand why, and he didn’t either, but we understood this meant more to him than just knowing I’d stop being a literal pain in his backside. What it meant became apparent as the day progressed and Jack did a couple things as rare as monogamy in the fifty-first century.

***

 

He has a shower. Alone.

Borrows a tee and sweatpants from me.

While I have my shower he phones in ´sick` and orders Gwen and Tosh to cover for us.

And he asks me to cook. With ´would you mind` and ´please` and all the trimmings.

Not coffee or frozen pizza. The one food I can cook properly. Lavabread with cockles. Nothing I’d kill for, but he likes it. So I pop over to the supermarket, get the ingredients and cook.

When I watch him eat, perfectly happy over a bagatelle like black sludge and molluscs in a bowl, it sticks out a mile. He’s open again. Soft, almost. Like the cockles. Stripped off the shell. I make a mental note to handle him with care today.

 

***

And I did. But to no avail. Because next he did something he apparently hadn’t done ever since...But one thing at a time. And I had no knowledge of that fact at that time.

***

 

I rinse his bowl, his fork, put them in the dishwasher. Click on a remote. CD changer provides random music. Beethoven’s ninth.

Jack has taken possession of the sofa.

“Ludwig, the old horndog. Made me look like a choir boy. You know he was practically deaf when he wrote that? Asked me c-moll or d-moll and I said d. D like in damsel. Was right up his alley.”

I seat myself behind the man who seems to have been always and everywhere. Wrap him in my arms. Trace my hands down the crisply ironed cotton covering his chest, his stomach, his crotch.  
Half mast. Yet another thing to wonder about. Is that a permanent condition in him? Is he ever not in the mood?

He leans into me, sighs.

“You know, I wouldn’t mind just sitting here and listening for a while.”

There’s my answer. So I retreat and we sit and listen.

Doesn’t take long and he smirks.

“Can’t keep your hands off me, can you?”

I hadn’t realised they’d travelled back down. I’m about to lift them off him but he bows up for an en passant kiss.

“No, this is good.”

So I stay. Do a bit of feathery caressing.

“Very good, actually.”

He sounds surprised.

So am I. I’m not even making skin contact.

And as Ludwig’s choir launches into their ´Freude schöner Götterfunken`, Jack’s eyes go wide in amazement.

“God, this is so...”

Then they flutter shut and for a few perfect moments all is just so good. The wave is not being allowed. Or surfed. It washes over him. Washes him away. No shiver, no roar, no determination, no pain. Just immaculate abandon.

 

***

Then all got much worse than it was before.

***

 

His eyes snap open, amazement still in place.

“I lost control.”

A blank observation.

And step two of the realisation rocket. He’s not even playing the power game with me. He’s playing it with himself. And it looks like he just lost. Big time.

Then his shell crashes shut. He stands.

“Get out.”

“But-”

“Get. Out.”

I could argue. That this is my flat and if anybody gets out...

Handle with care.

So I leave. In sweats and a hoodie and trainers. I take the SUV’s keys, though. No way am I walking the streets in that kind of attire.

 

***

I meandered through the blocks. What happened? What just happened? What the hell just happened? The question pattered down on me like the rain that set in on my seventh lap. The answer was as shrouded in clouds as the bloody Welsh sun.

***

 

Return home and he’s gone. His pieces of leisurewear scattered on the floor.

Slob.

I don’t mind being his Mrs. Mop. I mind being taken for granted.

 

***

Hours went by in which I occupied myself tidying up. By nightfall I ran out of things to clean. Only piece of furniture I hadn’t touched was the sofa. I didn’t understand what happened there. And I wasn't not going anywhere near it until I did.

***

 

I switch off all lights and stand, at a safe distance, waiting.

 

For that knock.

Him.

Let it be him.

Please let it be him.

 

***

It was him. Soaked to the bone. Leaving puddles of water with every wordless stride from the entrance door to the window façade. For once I didn’t care.

***

 

He’s with his back to me, staring out into the weeping black sky.

“I never lose control.”

What strikes me as odd is not the seamless continuation of our last dialogue. Did the same this morning. What strikes me as odd is that this comes from a man who’s been without control for a good part of his life.

I don’t know much about his past. Only fragments. But they are inwrought with him being at somebody else’s mercy.

Having two years of his memories wiped.

Being doomed to immortality.

Abandoned by the Doctor.

Tortured and forced into labour by Torchwood One.

Chained to some concrete pillars in the bowels of the Valiant.

Chained to this, chained to that.

Killed over and over again.

He’s reading my thoughts.

“It’s being wrenched from me, oh yes. Or it’s not even within reach. Or I give it up, for whatever reasons. But I never lose it.”

I close the distance between us. Put a hand on his shoulder.

“All you did was let go. We all let go every now and then.”

He spins round.

“I don’t! Not one single time since...”

His right hand goes up in a helpless, empty gesture.

And finally I do understand.

Another fragment. A far and long away world. An alien attack. Jack, only a boy then, holding on to his little brother’s hand. Trying to bring him to safety. But then he let go. Lost control. Lost the child.

He moves in.

“Why you?”

Menacing.

“What’s so special about you? You’re noting but one of oh so many. I’ve fucked before. I’ve been fucked before. I had affairs and I have loved before. Nothing like that ever happened. Now tell me, Tea Boy.” He spits the nickname Owen gave me. “What is so goddamn special about you?”

This could break my heart.

If I didn’t know the answer.

“What’s special about me, Sir, is that I’m in the right spot at the right time. With the many others there was always something you had to hide. The time agency, the cons, the supernatural, the alien hunt, your immortality. Your fears. You couldn’t be you. With me you can. I’m Torchwood. I understand. With me you are...safe.”

For a very long time he just looks at me.

Then a shivering breath.

And a lonely tear.

“Can you make it happen again, Ianto?”

 

***

Rocket three lifted off in a mind blowing blast. Nothing’s ever like it seems to be, is it? I did have power after all. A bloody whole lot of power. What’s special about me is, I'm not playing with it.

***

 

Once more I wrap him in my arms.

Once more he holds on.

“Yes, Jack. I can make it happen again.”

 

End.


End file.
